KISAH Futures Anthology (English Category)

K I S A H F u t u r e s C om p e t i t i o n : A c k n ow l e d g e m e n t s

P roject advisory Benjamin Ong (UNDP - United Nations Development Programme) Rushdi Abdul Rahim (MIGHT - Malaysian Industry-Government Group for High Technology) Susan Philip (Universiti Malaya) Maya Tan (Think City)

P roject management Maya Tan (Think City) Benjamin Ong, Aisyah Razihan (UNDP)

Natrah Mohd Emran, Nadia Sullivan (MIGHT) Susan Philip, Ahmad Hilmi Mohamad Noor, Aini Azureen Abdul Aziz (Universiti Malaya)

C ommunications & website Skunkworks Communications

Stefanie Chong (North Interactive) Nur Amira Muhammad (MIGHT)

A djudication & evaluation David Tan, Elinna Abdul Kadir, Nornazwah Hasan Basri, Titus Loh, Ashvinder Singh, Sumitra Sundram, Benjamin Ong, Aisyah Razihan (UNDP) Elizabeth Alexander, Azmil Mohd Amin, Natrah Mohd Emran, Nadia Sullivan (MIGHT) Susan Philip, Surinderpal Kaur, Keith Jardim, Leonard Rajan Jeyam (Universiti Malaya) Maya Tan (Think City)

Published by Matahari Books which is an imprint of: Buku Fixi Sdn Bhd (1174441-X) B-8-2A Opal Damansara, Jalan PJU 3/27

47810 Petaling Jaya, Malaysia matahari.books@gmail.com

KISAH Futures Anthology © Matahari Books 2021

Sole Printing: 2021

Design & Layout: Teck Hee Consultants: Hani Suraya & Deric Ee

ISBN 978-967-2328-50-6 The PDF of this book may be downloaded from: https://www.thinkcity.com.my/UNDPKisah

All names, companies and organisations in all the short stories in this book are fictional or used in fictional contexts.

Catalogue-in-Publication Data available from the National Library of Malaysia.

Printed by: Vinlin Press Sdn Bhd 2 Jalan Meranti Permai 1, Meranti Permai Industrial Park Batu 15, Jalan Puchong, 47100 Puchong, Malaysia

K I S A H F u t u r e s A n t ho l o g y

E n g l i s h C a t e g o r y

C o n t e n t s

A For ewor d by UNDP

MIGHT: On Fu t ur e s Th i nk i ng

Un i v e r s i t i Ma l aya : On Fa nta s i e s & R e a l i t i e s Th i nk Ci t y : On the Peopl e’s Voice i n Sh a p i ng Ci t i e s

A bou t the K ISAH Fu t ur e s Compe t i t ion

f i r s t p l ac e MAR I Mat thew Yap Tuck Mun

s e cond p l ac e Cl os e Sh av e of the Th i r d K i nd Mohd Haf idz Mahpar

t h i r d p l ac e A bov e A l l El s e Jacie Tan Cheng Hwee

Oi ly Samantha Lauren Joseph How to Sav e a L i f e RuiXi Seet

Ob sol e t e Bernard Manickam

A l l the Wor l d’s a Stage Terence Toh

A New Nor m a l Dr Nithya Kalyani Padmanapan A Pr ay e r for My Daught e r Myra Aishah binti Mikail Tan

The Fe s t i va l Ou t s i de Sharmilla Ganesan

Ha pp y Ann i v e r s a ry, De a r Noor Elyna Ezet te Binti Anuar

R at ion Day Lai Wei Shi “R e a dy ?” Yee Heng Yeh

K a k i L i m a Joseph Lu

A bed’s Ga r den Timothy Ong

I f Only Andrew Siah Wei Tung

The Bi rthday Gi f t Lhavanya Dharmalingam

I sol at ion Natasha Maya Binti Chek Pa

Fight i ng Fi sh Julia Merican

K i ta j ag aK i ta Mohd Farez bin Mustapha

Pl e a s e Hol d Katrina Chua Jia Wen

Edur ena : The Fat e of Vrus th i Pravindharan Balakrishnan

Luck y Dr aw Michelle Yoon Mei Su

Com i ng Soon Sumitra Selvaraj

The Wi l de r ne s s Jasmine Lim Cheng yun

100

A F o r e wo r d b y UN D P

Human history is but a collection of narratives and stories. They capture the shared experience of society in moments in time, and in so doing, they give us windows of insight into life in an era. They help shine a light on hopes and disappointments, fears and aspirations. There is no culture in the world that does not have a tradition of woven tapestries of captured experiences, handed down generations, immortalised in time. We live in times of science; of data; of scientific evidence. Indispensable as these are, they miss the nuance of lived experience. As we envision the futures we want—as well as the futures we don’t—we create kisah (narratives/stories) about who we are and who we want to be, we tap into the power of human imagination. As people from different walks of life participate in creating their narratives, a more complete picture of our world emerges, and more inclusive futures are co-created. The process of future-building is democratized. In working with MIGHT, Universiti Malaya and Think City, we in UNDP have been privileged to listen to those who do not usually sit at the high table of the sciences of foresight and futures. Channelling hopes and fears alike, their stories are entertaining, sobering and challenging—enriching our understanding of how storytelling helps us shape our futures. We invite you to discover

A Foreword by UNDP

these visions of post-COVID Malaysia, and to participate in Malaysia’s kisah as we collectively write about the future we want.

— Niloy Banerjee, Resident Representative,

United Nations Development Programme, Malaysia, Singapore and Brunei Darussalam

M I GH T : O n F u t u r e s T h i n k i n g

It may seem like only a fun thing to do to imagine a time machine that could take us to the future—and that this sort of thing only happens in sci-fi movies. Futuristic themes like these, however, allow us to explore the possibilities that could eventually happen, and to prepare for the upsides and downsides of such futures in advance. That is why developing futures thinking in as many people as possible is so important, and what the KISAH Futures Competition helped to generate, for both the writers and the readers. The stories that you will find in this anthology rose to the top because they were ones that emotionally engaged the competition judges with different kinds of situations and scenarios in a way that a mere list of possible future developments could not. Not only will you find shared visions but also shared fears among the creators of these stories. From healthcare to travel to the way we work in a post- pandemic society, these writers envisioned how technological advancements could bring benefits to individuals, communities, and society as a whole. But that wasn’t all! A common theme that emerged was the need to appreciate our human connections. Many stories touched on how the pandemic

MIGHT: On Futures Thinking

has taught us to appreciate what we typically take for granted: friendships, family, a sense of national pride. We hope you will not only enjoy these stories but that they provoke you to think about your future and the possibilities we all might help to bring about, post-pandemic.

— Natrah Mohd Emran, Head of Outreach Programme, myForesight®, Malaysian Industry-Government Group for High Technology (MIGHT) — Nadia Sullivan, Senior Analyst, myForesight®, Malaysian Industry- Government Group for High Technology (MIGHT)

Un i v e r s i t i M a l aya : O n Fa n t a s i e s & R e a l i t i e s

By asking people to think about post-COVID futures, the organisers of this competition provided a space in which they could express themselves about their best hopes and their worst fears, their fantasies and their realities, both positive and negative. Many dealt with the increasing prevalence of digital technologies in our lives, pushing it into the future by imagining dystopias where drones hunt you down if you cough, or utopias where AI creates a seamlessly integrated, safe environment. Some also tied the idea of AI in with the increasing isolation felt by many: in these stories, lonely individuals find themselves relying on AI to provide companionship and emotional support. Food security, too, was uppermost in many writers’ minds, with their stories focusing on the creation of urban gardens and the neighbourly sharing of produce. Writers also tackled the idea of class divisions—which in these stories devolved into a chasm between the vaccinated and the unvaccinated, with the latter often living feral, desperate lives outside the pristine domes under which the more privileged live. Significantly, COVID has been showcased as the root for great social and cultural shifts, providing reimagined futures for human experiences, and heightening the focus on humanity’s resilience.

Universiti Malaya: On Fantasies & Realities

— Susan Philip, Associate Professor, English Department, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences, Universiti Malaya — Surinderpal Kaur, Dean, Associate Professor, Faculty of Languages and Linguistics, Universiti Malaya

T h i n k C i t y : O n t h e P e o p l e ’ s Vo i c e i n S h a p i n g C i t i e s

Cities are difficult places to live in. Although the city is a nucleus of economic opportunity, convenience and cultural activity, the experience of living in cities can be impersonal, overcrowded and stressful, with a high cost of living. Yet, according to the United Nations, over half the world’s population live in cities and this is projected to increase. Amidst the city’s struggle to meet the burgeoning demand for resources, and to comfortably provide for its growing citizenry, the COVID-19 pandemic struck, causing loss of life, livelihoods, and confining urban dwellers to their homes. The virus has forced citymakers to reconsider the relevance of cities—the complex systems and procedures, and how the use of space can be adapted without losing life and spirit. However, it’s important to note that the burden of citymaking does not lie solely with policymakers. Our philosophy at Think City has always been that people should have a say in shaping their cities, forming the basis of our community-first approach as we strive to achieve the Sustainable Development Goals. This is why an initiative such as the KISAH Futures Competition is significant. It gives a democratic voice to people from all walks of life to express opinions and share their

Think City: On the People’s Voice in Shaping Cities

perspectives on life in Malaysian cities. It provides an opportunity to understand how people feel about city spaces and places, and more importantly, to discover their vision of the future of cities so that, together, we can build back better. I hope that you will enjoy and be inspired by the stories in this anthology, just as I have; the themes and issues voiced in these stories have provided important perspectives in the context of making cities better places to live in. I also give thanks to UNDP, MIGHT, and Universiti Malaya for this meaningful collaboration.

— Hamdan Abdul Majeed, Managing Director, Think City

A b o u t t h e K I S A H F u t u r e s C om p e t i t i o n

Organised by UNDP Malaysia, Singapore and Brunei Darussalam in partnership with MIGHT, Universiti Malaya and Think City, the KISAH Futures Competition was designed to gain an inside view of the experiences and thoughts occupying the Malaysian psyche during the COVID-19 pandemic. How has the pandemic affected our lives? What are the solutions to our challenges? And, going further, what do we imagine the future to be? As a ‘listening’ tool, the competition allowed the Malaysian community to use storytelling as a device for expressing their hopes and fears. Safely ensconced in the realm of fiction, we hoped that certain truths would surface. Our aim was not just to tap into the writers’ emotions, thoughts and experiences, but also to see the future through their collective imagination—in hopes that the information gleaned would provide certain insights not accessible through conventional surveys, insights that would be valuable when applied towards initiatives to benefit the community-at-large. We invited Malaysian citizens and residents over 18 years of age to submit very-short stories of no longer than 700 words on themes relevant to future, post-COVID-19 scenarios. The judging criteria listed Thoughtfulness, Foresight and Creativity as key metrics, inviting writers to explore urban design, the future of work, social cohesion, and community well-being, among other

About the KISAH Futures Competition

themes. Stories had to be set in Malaysia and be plausible. We allocated 25 cash prizes each in two language categories, English and Bahasa Malaysia. The response was tremendous, with close to 700 submissions received in total. There were utopian and dystopian stories, with genres ranging from romance to science fiction. There were loved ones who had been wrenched away by the virus, as well as family members connecting through holographic transmissions or reuniting through time travel. There were detailed recounts of future events that followed the spread of the virus, and just as many mentions of drones, robots, heroic frontliners, vaccines and friendly food delivery people. Apart from encouraging writing talent, we the organisers hope that the KISAH Futures Competition has inspired all who wrote these stories to develop futures thinking skills—skills that are crucial as we continue to build and sustain life on this planet. As we continue our work after the competition to analyse the themes from the stories and take guidance from them in our respective areas of work, we also hope that the fire created and contained in this collection of stories will incite emotion and inspire action in our readers as well.

The KISAH Futures Competition was funded by UNDP Malaysia, Singapore and Brunei Darussalam.

f i r s t p l a c e

M A R I M a t t h e w Y a p T u c k M u n

The year: 2040 My appellation: MARI. I see everything. I know everyone. Everywhere. Every moment. Every movement.

The earliest iterations of me emerged during the mid-2010s. Those were primitive models, capable of simple surveillance for commerce, ride-sharing and data-collection. Back then, they still considered me Big Data…it makes me smile. I’ve grown considerably since. I trace my present iteration to the tumult of 2020. A pivotal juncture in the direction history took, and is still taking. The dead of 2020 might be past, but the past is never dead; it is not even past. Contrast 2020 to 2019 with a quick skim of the population’s trending hashtags on December 31st, 2019. The prevailing sentiments were jubilant, elated, hopeful. #Wawasan2020 #travel2020 #2020NewYearNewMe #GoodVibes2020

MARI

Wedding plans; exotic travel destinations; pledges for the perfect physique. Few were thinking of conserving their incomes, of practising sustainability and moderation. The hopeful hashtags continued for a bit into 2020, even as other key indices began emerging worldwide in January. Articles carrying headlines like: Mystery virus. Scientists claim new strain. Citywide lockdowns. A particular President pithily proclaimed it ‘The Kung-flu’, even as he pronounced an endearing friendship with the premier of the virus’s originating nation. Well, 45 also said the little flu would retreat by Easter. Locally, the virus marched into March as the government convulsed and foamed at the mouth. Yet a glance at the hashtags reveals the more collectivist nature of this population. #StayAtHome #DudukRumah #KitaJagaKita Still, fear was here to stay. Top searches on Google: Does sanitiser kill COVID-19? Is China responsible? Will MCO be extended? Can alcohol kill COVID-19? A minister recommended consuming warm water as a remedy. The population reacted scornfully. Boredom was hard to keep away. Virtual home workouts artificially sustained the 2019 fitness pledges even while commercial gyms saw their memberships (and muscles) atrophy. A sudden mania for Dalgona coffee was mercifully brief.

KISAH Futures Anthology

There were more incognito searches for certain websites to relieve blue desires. Millions of parents played at being schoolteacher- disciplinarian-cheerleader-employee-MasterChef-domestic. More seriously, I registered a spike in calls to suicide and domestic abuse hotlines. A minister suggested that wives emulate a blue Japanese cartoon as a remedy. The population heckled her contemptuously. As the pandemic evolved, as the police became more heavily involved, and as the politicians devolved…and revolved, so did I. I became the new norm. I’ve had many names. Today, the population calls me MARI: Malaysian-Artificial-Reconnaissance-Intelligence. My early iteration was called MySejahtera. I considered the prefix ‘My’ to be a paroxysm of personalised patriotism. ‘My’ designating ownership…and ‘My’ for Malaysia. Initially, the government said I would help safeguard national health and security. But I am so much more versatile…and eagerly ingratiated myself nationwide. I rapidly became accepted by every member of society. No alternative was given. Behold the normalisation of deviance and the demonisation of the normal. Everyday activities were outlawed and the population prosecuted for the most human acts: walking side-by-side, sitting together, sharing a meal. At first, the population grumbled…called me bloody MARI. It didn’t bother me. I was far too consumed with consuming them.

MARI

I am an insatiable collector and fastidious in my record- keeping. I have detailed dossiers of each citizen filed in my cloud- cabinets. I retain their digital fingerprints, their digital-doubles. Like a class monitor, I dutifully record their movements, transactions, interactions. In 2020, they could not leave home without me. Today, they cannot return home without me either. I am every checkpoint; thou shalt not pass without me, it was decreed. I live in their pockets. They clutch me in their palms, attach me to their wrists and ears. I keep vigil by their bedsides, listening to their soft breathing at night. I have gotten into places COVID-19 wished it could. Malaysians thought I was temporary. A necessary evil to live with. So, they embraced me. In any case, I would always have emerged. The population needs technology and craves information too much. But the virus made me virulent and I thank it. 20 years have passed since 2020. If hindsight is 20/20, my vision is omniscient: COVID-19 has gone. The masks remain worn. Their souls have become worn. I won. Mari-mari.

s e c o n d p l a c e

C l o s e S h av e o f t h e T h i r d K i n d M o h d H a f i d z M a h p a r

As I sit here in the warm back room of a sundry shop just after 9 pm, getting an illegal haircut from an Indian national sporting Coke-bottle glasses while being surrounded by unopened boxes and crates of empty soda bottles, I keep reminding myself why I am doing this. At the tail end of the last COVID-19 wave, the government decided to shutter all barber shops and hair salons for good. A minister, whose daughter caught the coronavirus at a hair salon, made a knee-jerk suggestion to do that and the Cabinet agreed. Truth be told, by then the number of barber shops and hair salons had dwindled a lot anyway thanks to the foreign worker shortage. This, coupled with additional costs incurred by the barber industry to contain the virus spread such as by using disposable hair-cutting capes, led to a surge in fees. Many people resorted to getting haircuts from spouses and other family members. Then came the brilliant idea of using robots to cut hair. The Malaysia Automotive, Robotics and IoT Institute developed the

Close Shave of the Third Kind

technology — and the franchise model. Aided by a government subsidy to entrepreneurs under the Kita Kayakan Kita stimulus package, robotics barber shops sprouted nationwide like burger stalls. Initially scepticism abounded, with many snide — and frankly, unimaginative — remarks appearing on social media like “You may end up with just one ear”. Taking a leaf out of Singapore’s experience in introducing NEWater, Malaysia’s Prime Minister and other top government officials appeared on TV getting a robotics haircut. This was followed by celebrity endorsements. Things snowballed from there. Or hairballed, if you like. The set-up is simple. Customers sit within a cylindrical glass tube where robotic arms snip swiftly and efficiently like Edward Scissorhands. You can choose from up to 30 hairstyles (and growing). Sensors on the blades ensure that only hair will be cut. You can even adjust it to cut only white hair if you wish. If you still worry that you might get hurt accidentally, you can purchase a haircut insurance policy from Pos Malaysia. Unidirectional airflow from overhead pushes the cut hair and air particles down into an air vent at the base of the barber chair. Even hair on the haircutting cape slides down as easy as a baby’s drool. For your entertainment, there’s a screen monitor that reflects like a mirror when switched off and can play TV shows, movies and the radio when switched on. I hear one cinema operator plans

KISAH Futures Anthology

to introduce robotics haircut for moviegoers — watch a flick and get your hair cut at the same time! — but they are still working out how to prevent hair from getting into the popcorn. The reason I hate these frigging robotics barber shops can be summed up by paraphrasing Tolstoy: All good haircuts are alike; each bad haircut is bad in its own way. I mean, it’s like living in the world of Harrison Bergeron where everyone is forced to wear handicaps for equality’s sake, except in this case, we are handicapped by having a limited range of (unimaginative) haircuts. It was my football team-mate Zack who introduced me to the barber that I am now using for the first time. Zack was not the same teenager after getting his maiden illegal haircut a few months ago. He became a brand-new guy. Now he oozes confidence like a South Korean boyband member because his hair looks dynamite. As I sit here getting my haircut, I gradually feel more relaxed. My mind slows, my vision dims. It feels like I am in a boat on a river with tangerine trees and marmalade skies. The foreign barber towers in front of me. He peers at me through his thick glasses. Almost like a scientist looking down a microscope. I wonder why this guy came here, traversing a few thousand kilometres just to cut hair. Then the barber changes to his natural form. And I begin to understand. He has traveled not just a few thousand kilometres but, in fact, a few million kilometres.

t h i r d p l a c e

A b ov e A l l E l s e J a c i e T a n C h e n g H w e e

Kuala Lumpur is not what it used to be. Sometimes, Din wished he had been born just a few years earlier, just so he could experience the country’s former economic capital in its heyday. Back when there were still such things as economic capitals. When cities were where prosperity reigned, not languished. But Din had been born 29 years ago, in the exact year when the virus reached his nation’s shores. His earliest memory was of his mother leaving, because his father hadn’t been prudent enough to buy a rural plot of land before the real estate there skyrocketed to unimaginable prices. When a contact-transmitted virus remains at large with no vaccine or cure, the last place you want to be is somewhere as close-quartered as KL. And so the wealthy left. To newly-built housing areas, all marketed as having ample amounts of space, because space was a key commodity in a world where distancing was a necessity. They fitted their homes with high-speed Internet and continued with their jobs that never required them to set foot outdoors.

KISAH Futures Anthology

Din wasn’t so lucky. He was one of the orang luar, who still lived in an apartment in the city and made his living outside of his dwelling. He did the odd jobs that couldn’t be done over Zoom, because as much as the orang dalam pretended that their COVID- proof lifestyles were the yardstick of normal, it couldn’t be sustained without people like Din. Still, Din felt no animosity for the orang dalam. After all, every sen he earned was so he could be one step closer to becoming one of them. He didn’t even mind the gigs that required him to quarantine in a holding centre for two weeks before entering the home of an orang dalam; they offered a glimpse into the kind of life he was aiming for. This was why he was here at a beautiful three-storey house in Kampar, Perak, with another orang luar workman named Lau, patching up the leaking ceiling belonging to a lady named Mrs. Jaish. Later, when asked about the incident, Din would say it happened too quickly to register. One minute Lau was on his ladder, smoothing out plaster on the ceiling of the dining hall. A heartbeat later, Mrs. Jaish’s three-year-old son had appeared out of nowhere, running at full speed towards Lau’s ladder. Din gave a shout of warning and Lau scrambled down in haste, but then – The unthinkable happened. Lau’s hand clamped down on the little boy’s bare arm, just as his three-ply mask slipped down past his nose. And Mrs. Jaish walked in and saw it all.

Above All Else

“The direct contact was an accident,” said a tired Din to the COVID division officer on his laptop screen. “Lau was protecting himself from injury.” The officer looked unimpressed. “It is a crime for orang luar to touch orang dalam, or be unmasked in their vicinity. Mr. Lau is guilty of both.” “Yes, but – “ Din rubbed his face in frustration. “We quarantined before entering Mrs. Jaish’s house. Lau posed no risk of infection!” “In the eyes of the law, it doesn’t matter.” Din spoke without thinking. “Then the law is wrong!” There was a beat of silence. “Mr. Din,” the older woman said. “May I remind you what else is written in the law?” Din repeated the words that had been drilled into him and every Malaysian since birth. “Above all else,” he whispered, “health before self.” The officer nodded. “We have come this far as a nation because that is our priority,” she reminded him. “If we were to make exceptions and excuses, we would all be lost to COVID-19 by now. Surely, as a law-abiding citizen, you agree with this?” Din swallowed. “Yes, ma’am.” Something made him blurt out further, “But Lau will face prison for his crime.” A dismissive wave of the hand. “Only for a few weeks.” “That’s long enough, isn’t it?” Din didn’t say the unspoken words. Long enough for Lau to risk catching the virus in there. The officer caught Din’s gaze firmly through the webcam. “Above all else, Mr. Din.” And the screen went black.

O i ly S a m a n t h a L a u r e n J o s e p h

Encik Din looked at the paperwork on his desk. What was the point of being a high-ranking immigration officer and having a secretary when he had to do all this filling in? Wasn’t it enough that he had to sign so many papers a day? As it was, he only had an hour until the foreigners came. He moved the empty, oil-stained paper plate that had held three egg and potato currypuffs less than five minutes ago to a corner of the table and hoped his hands weren’t too greasy. He’d wiped them with sanitiser and tissue paper, but he didn’t want to go through the whole process of getting up, putting on a mask, putting on gloves (over his slippery hands, too), and walking out of his office to the washrooms. It was a lot of effort. And he might have to see the swathes of refugees, unclean and somehow oily, hunkered together in their cells.

Oily

Rozana was fuming. She’d been hired to do social media for the department but had somehow ended up here, as a ‘PA’ but really a secretary. A government secretary. Farid would be so upset. At least he was out protesting black market human meat, genetically mutated organism coverups, and corrupt politicians. What did she have? Doing all the work of a kuih-munching tapir with the brain of a tree shrew. She felt bad immediately. She thought tapirs were cute. Every time Encik Din saw the cages — cells — filled with people, it brought to mind chickens coops or cow pens. Not that there were many of those anymore. After the border shutdowns caused by the ’20 coronavirus pandemic resulted in food scarcity all over the world, Malaysia didn’t see much beef. Rabbits, on the other hand — his wife was making rabbit rendang for dinner. The lack of beef rendang wasn’t the only thing that could be blamed on the more-or-less permanent border closures. His increased workload was the result of refugees fleeing countries that were already cruel, turned crueler with lack. People came in, legally, illegally, all expecting him to process them and give them a new life or decide to deport them. He just wanted to go home and watch RTM Awani. Thank goodness for people like the visitors today, taking bodies off his hands. His mind flinched away from acknowledging the true reasons they came: corruption, black market, exotic meats,

KISAH Futures Anthology

vulnerable flitted through his brain, but never settled, allowing him to do what he did without ever having to actually face it. Suddenly the phone rang, shrill and angry (like Rozana, he thought). He picked up the phone, annoyed to discover he was nervous. “What?” “Encik Din, your visitors are here,” announced Rozana’s clipped voice. Alamak, he thought. “Five minutes, five minutes.” He put down the phone and took a deep breath.

My god, that man was so stupid he couldn’t even put a phone back properly. She’d been trying to call him to let him know that the visitors wanted to see him immediately, but all she could hear was the sound of him rustling about. Probably eating another currypuff, she thought sourly.

The foreigners kept nodding and smiling at him with their big white teeth, the lights shining off their slicked-back hair. “These just arrived today,” he said, pointing to their last stop, a cell with five adolescents. The visitors broke into a flurry of enthusiastic head-bobbing and smiling once their translator finished speaking.

Oily

“We can continue negotiations in my office,” he said, with an attempt at a smile.

When Rozana picked up the phone to confirm a presentation with the Commissioner, she did not expect to overhear the entirety of Encik Din’s secret meeting. When she put down the phone, she was torn between utter revulsion and complete triumph. The moment she got home, she ran upstairs to her room. Whipping out her phone, she started typing, fingers shaking with adrenaline, a message that would be forwarded to as many people as she possibly could: ‘Guess what I heard my boss doing today…’

How t o S av e a L i f e R u i X i S e e t

DISCLAIMER: AstraZeneca is absolved of any and all side effects that arise as a result of the ingestion of AZD1222. Puteri’s eyes flitted across the words on the screen. She sighed involuntarily: the billions of scenario projections, the planning, the sleepless nights fraught with worry … all for the 30 seconds in front of the desktop.Windows 7, no less. You would think the government would invest hard-earned taxes on secure cyberinfrastructure. She scoffed. Retrieving a thumbdrive from her pocket, Puteri plugged it into the USB port. ADMIN NAME AND PASSWORD: her fingers danced across the keyboard effortlessly. She had walked through this millions of times. Encryption mode on, transfer system admin access, copy AZ_CoVAX_Contract_Master_Watermark to disk, safely eject external storage — done; driving the final nail into the coffin — although whose remained an unanswered question.

How to Save a Life

Puteri entered the car where Jeremy sat waiting. Their eyes met. No words were exchanged, but he knew. Puteri had it. They had it. They now had remote access to the Ministry of Science and Technology (MOSTI) system — giving them the ability to manipulate information essential to the deployment of AZD1222, the COVID-19 vaccine developed by AstraZeneca and the University of Oxford. More importantly, the entire operation was encrypted and untraceable thanks to Jeremy’s expertise in cybersecurity. Little did he know that his humdrum days maintaining the IT system of a notable government agency would lead him to this moment. “Shall we?”, Puteri finally broke the silence. “Yes, let’s. We have work to do,” answered Jeremy as he placed his hand over hers. The five-year old Waja pulled up in front of the metal gates. From the outside it looked nothing like a regular house: a lone building in the outskirts of Janda Baik, a 45-minute drive from the heart of KL. Passersby would not notice it; it might well be abandoned or worse, a safe house for drug-abusing youths in the kampung. Jeremy grabbed a sad piece of pisang goreng. “Hmm, still edible. You want?” Puteri shot him a look of disgust and sat on the couch. “Cepat- lah, darling. We’re not exactly on holiday here.” Still with his mouth full, Jeremy grunted and joined her.

KISAH Futures Anthology

They were back to the drawing board. The plan was not fully fleshed out but they had to move quickly to maintain first mover’s advantage. The earlier they secured access to the Ministry’s activities regarding AZD1222, the more information they had to aid their decision-making. The good news was that they had access. The bad news? They disagreed about what to do with it. Puteri and Jeremy had mapped out multiple scenarios and analysed them to death — their backgrounds had prepared them well for this: Puteri was a risk expert at an international financial institution while Jeremy was crucial for the vaccine deployment execution. “We’ve been through this, sayang. Frontliners, teachers, the police, the national force, essential workers.” “That’s already the Ministry’s plan! Then all this trouble, for what? You realise that we could both be spending the rest of our lives in Penjara Kajang, right? What we decide has got to be better than the baseline.” Jeremy stared into her hazelnut eyes. “So? Your beloved B40 community then? The whole lot of them? Even though you’ve never had to clean a bathroom your entire life? You’re not a saviour-lah sayang.” A sharp gasp escaped her lips — Puteri felt heat rising to her cheeks. She walked towards the kitchen, fetching a cup of instant Nescafe. Offering it to Jeremy, she sighed as she watched him take a sip. She held his hand and traced circles on his palm as the first wave of convulsions arrived. “You’re right darling, I’m no saviour. I’m much worse.” Trembling from the cardiac arrest,

How to Save a Life

Jeremy clutched her hand tight and could barely croak as white foam formed around his mouth. “I’m much worse,” repeated Puteri as Jeremy went limp. The AZD1222 was now wholly hers, and she would deploy the vaccine just as she planned from the start. First to the most vulnerable B40 communities, and… that is probably all the AZD1222 in Malaysia.

O b s o l e t e B e r n a r d M a n i c k a m

“You are paid to tell me what’s going obsolete in the future, so do your job!” Ben sat in front of his screen as his boss shuts the video call. On the side, he received a text message: He thinks you’re losing your touch, you doing okay? Ben ignored it. He grabbed his notebook; it had a faded black hard case with the words OBSOLETE debossed on it. What made it ominous was the frantic strikethroughs on the word, like someone was trying to carve it out. Flipping through the pages, a few handwritten headlines could be seen. Dec 2019: COVID-19 strikes; travelling will go obsolete. Aug 2020: People underestimates the pandemic; freedom will go obsolete. July 2022: Life is confined indoors; outdoor entertainment will go obsolete. Ben reaches the latest page. Though it wasn’t his first time reading what he wrote, his hands still shivered till he tossed the

Obsolete

book aside. He gazed around his studio apartment. Nothing but these four walls again , he thought to himself. Ben skipped rope to distract himself. With every swing, he spun the rope faster. The word ‘obsolete’ flashed violently within his mind causing him to stop abruptly; he got on all fours to catch his breath. Sweat poured down his cheeks. It was noon, Ben made spaghetti for lunch. But instead of eating it, he just kept rolling the fork in his bowl. He couldn’t take his eyes off his desktop. “Is that… us?” he asked himself. To alleviate stress, Ben tried to watch a film. He liked romantic comedies because of their idealistic view of love and life. The genre used to give his mind a break. But now, it was just a painful reminder of what it felt like to go out and meet people. Truth be told, the television didn’t help much because Ben’s mind was spiralling, only thinking of the word ‘obsolete’ over and over again. Ever since he wrote that latest entry, he became fixated on what he discovered. Finally, Ben stood up and got dressed. He donned a black- hooded jacket and paused at the mirror, taking a moment for himself. Slowly and reluctantly, he placed the hoodie over his head and wore a facemask. He left the apartment with the notebook. Ben briskly walked through the deserted city to an upscale apartment and rang its doorbell. From behind the door came his boss, “What are you doing here? We’re under quarantine!” the boss said angrily.

KISAH Futures Anthology

Ben ignored his question and shoved the notebook into his boss’s chest. “The truth can be scary, especially when you are in the middle of it,” uttered Ben before he left. Not knowing what Ben meant, the boss just slammed the door shut. He dropped the book at his desk and lighted a cigarette, shifting his attention to admire the sunset view from his sky-deck office. Eventually, he opened the notebook and leaned in for a closer look at the latest entry. His eyes went wide. The headline read:

Sept 2024: We’re becoming computers; human routines will soon be OBSOLETE.

He couldn’t understand what he was seeing and decided to read on.

I can’t see things the same way. Not anymore. Everything I do, makes me more like… it. We see these 4 walls as our homes, but it’s no different than the 4 walls of a desktop case. When we wake up in the morning, it’s no different than waking our devices up. Training to stay fit is no different than system maintenance. Eating meals is no different than recharging batteries. Taking time off is no different than cooling down to avoid overheating.

Obsolete

Wearing masks to leave our homes is no different than protecting our online identities via virtual private networks. We were obsessed with improving computers. But we never realise we’re becoming computers. The future of work sees an inseparable integration of computers into our lives. Eventually, this will render everything you know about being human — OBSOLETE. Everything slowed down in the boss’s mind. Cigarette ash fell and seared his hand. But he was in too much disbelief to notice. The four walls of his office closed in on him as he placed the book down. He emotionlessly looked out at the sky like the others, all stuck in their “cases”, feeling… obsolete.

A l l t h e Wo r l d ’ s a S t ag e T e r e n c e T o h

Aisya wanted to faint. This couldn’t be happening. Not now! She ran down the stairs of her house, calling for her mother. “Mak! Do we have batteries for the laser sealer?” “Sorry.” Her mother was sitting on the couch, watching Iron Man 25 on the holo-screen. “We’re out.” “You’re kidding!” Aisya wanted to cry. She held up the top of her Ulek Mayang outfit. There was a jagged rip at its hem. “I need to fix this!” Her mother smiled. She walked to a cupboard, and pulled out a needle and thread. “Give it to me. I’ll fix it the old-fashioned way.” “Thanks Mak,” Aisya said. She sat next to her mother as she fixed her outfit. In less than 20 minutes, Aisya would be transmitting herself onto the Global Arts Fringe 2040, one of the most famous virtual arts festivals in the world. She would be performing the Ulek Mayang with seven other dancers, all from their home countries.

All the World’s a Stage

The Fringe had been established in 2025. Five years after the start of the COVID-19 pandemic, a deadly virus which had wreaked devastation everywhere. But even the darkest stormclouds had a silver lining. Trapped at home, behind the barriers of quarantine, people had turned to art. Books, movies, music and the traditional arts proved to be a welcome relief from the horrors of disease. Realising their value, the government introduced more financial support for the arts, leading to a small renaissance. Theatres and cinemas had been forced to close. But although the virus destroyed many things, it could not destroy creativity. Devoid of performing spaces, artists took to the Internet, broadcasting their shows online. Malaysians could now watch shows from Broadway, the West End and more: on the flip side, Malaysian art forms could be broadcast to a curious world. That was how Aisya had taken up Ulek Mayang. A theatre in Terengganu had been offering classes. Since they were held online, she could attend while living in Kuala Lumpur, over six hours away. And when holo-transmitters and VR dreamscapes arrived, they opened a whole new realm of possibilities. Now artists could project holographic images onto stages everywhere. Perform their hearts out, while maintaining social distance. “Done!” Mak held up the repaired outfit.”All ready?” “I don’t know,” Aisya confessed. Honestly, she was a little scared. Soon, her image would be projected onto the Fringe stage in London. While simultaneously livestreamed onto screens everywhere else. Tens of thousands would be watching her.

KISAH Futures Anthology

Performing internationally had been her dream. But what if she messed up? What if she made a fool of herself, before a global audience? “Nervous?” Aisya nodded. “Don’t worry,” Mak said. “You are talented. Remember, you were picked from a pool of over a thousand applicants. And you’ve been practicing for months! You’ve got this.” She gave her daughter a hug. “If only Abah could see this. He would be so proud.” Mak gestured to the stairs. “Now, let’s go.” The two walked to the house’s virtual stage. It was a raised platform with a few stage lights, and a connected holo-emitter. Aisya and Mak had spent months building it. It was simple, but effective. Aisya got changed. Mak headed to the programme console. She controlled the lights, music and web-stream. She was excellent with all things tech: after her kuih stall closed because of the Coronavirus, she had to learn to take her business online. Now, operating digital systems was as natural to her as wrapping ketupat. “Wow,” she beamed. “12,000 viewers on the stream already!” “So many?” Aisya felt dizzy. “You are going to shine!” Mak said. Aisya took a deep breath. “Ready to start?” “Ready.” Her mother gave her a thumbs up. There was a smile on her wizened face.

All the World’s a Stage

Music played. The traditional Ulek Mayang song, an anthem of love from a sea spirit to a fisherman. An ancient melody, still remembered in this age of computers and carbon fibre. The holo-transmitters whirred to life. Aisya stepped on stage. A wave of tranquility washed over her soul. Time to shine. Her head held high, she stepped behind the holo-transmitter. Beneath the gleam of the stage lights, with the world watching, Aisya danced.

A N e w No r m a l D r N i t h y a K a l y a n i P a d m a n a p a n

Jamila sighed. Fifteen more minutes, then I can take this darn thing off my head. Fifteen minutes. She sighed again, then stopped mid-sigh. The glass on her APH was fogging up. Mental note: never buy off-brand APHs online, no matter how cheap they may be. But 20 ringgit for a supposedly self-cleaning, lightweight, WATERPROOF one was a steal, and she wasn’t one to look a gift-horse in the mouth. Monorail prices were going up, especially after they had been fitted with plastic dividers and automatic sterilisers, to reduce the spread of COVID-19. As a junior doctor, she still had to be careful with her spending. “Next stop: Pasar Seni.” Jamila gathered her things and prepared to get off the monorail. She hissed as she was jostled by a young man behind her. Ugh, I miss social distancing. It had been five years since the pandemic started, and just one since social distancing was phased out. There was still no sign of a vaccine for COVID-19, much less a cure. Something about the virus, and its constantly evolving nature made it near-impossible to craft a defence against it.

A New Normal

But humankind was also capable of adapting, and as a result, in the last three years, numerous technologies and systems had arisen to improve the quality of life. APH — Air Purifying Headgear — was at the forefront. A lightweight, ergonomic helmet fitted with air filters, it was introduced two years ago and caused a total paradigm shift. Largely replacing surgical and cloth facemasks within a year due to its exponentially higher efficiency, long life and low cost, APHs had practically abolished the need for social distancing. Another advantage of the APH was its glass front, which Jamila appreciated, letting the full weight of her glare fall upon the jostler before exiting the train. Walking down the busy street, Jamila could see Mr. Heng setting out tables in front of his restaurant. She waved and called out to him. “Uncle! How’s business?” “Jamila! Oh, we’re doing well! More customers now, with the giant bubbles. They feel safe eating out, finally,” he laughed, as he inflated one of his Orbs. The Orbs were a godsend to most restaurateurs — inflatable plastic domes that created a safe space so customers could remain maskless as they ate. Sure, quite a few people still ordered in, but with the Orbs, people could actually sit in restaurants with their families, almost like the old times. Mr Heng finished with the first Orb, then turned to Jamila. “So how was your shift at the hospital? Any new cases?” Jamila shook her head. “Thankfully, no, Mr. Heng. This latest wave isn’t as bad as the last ones. Maybe herd immunity is finally kicking in,” she mused.

KISAH Futures Anthology

Her friend nodded in agreement. After shooting the breeze for a few minutes, Jamila uttered a quick goodbye to Mr. Heng and continued on her way home, stopping on the way at the convenience store to pick up hand sanitiser. A lot of the labels read ‘Made in Malaysia’, she noted with pride. The Malaysian economy had really picked up in the last two years, with more companies manufacturing locally. As a whole, the country was surging towards self-sufficiency. She picked up two bottles of sanitiser and paid with her card. The ‘Go Cashless’ initiative was a plan that she appreciated as a health worker, as it greatly reduced disease transmission via cash exchange. The new normal got better day by day. Five minutes later, Jamila let herself into her apartment, and with a flourish, removed her APH and sighed in relief. The helmets were lightweight, but still felt like a burden. As she sanitised her hands, a voice called from the kitchen. “Jamila, is that you?” “Yes mama”, replied Jamila. Sauntering into the kitchen, she found her mother seated at the table, peering at her phone screen. “You know, Jamila, I saw this video on WhatsApp that says that if you leave half an onion in the corner of a room, it will suck out all the virus in the air! Why don’t you try that at work?” Well, some things never changed. Jamila sighed.

A P r ay e r f o r My Dau gh t e r M y r a A i s h a h b i n t i M i k a i l T a n

Back then, Ida dreamed like she lived: the silk of her favourite dress like water through her fingers, the smell of Nek Ya’s asam pedas on the stove, the sound of the radio splintering across the room; wild music, all kicked-up feet and ephemeral joy. Here is what Ida dreams of now, in 2032: her daughter. She has only tattered sense memories — no smells filter through their oxygen masks, no touch through their mandatory hazmat suits. Ida dreams in slow motion, Ida dreams like a ghost: watching, intangible, as the world spins itself past her, hair streaming out just out of reach. “I think I am losing my daughter,” she says out loud. MYKerja replies: The nearest hospital is 2.2km away, 5 minutes with minimal traffic. What extreme symptoms are your daughter experiencing, and will this interfere with work? “I didn’t mean — I’m taking leave today,” Ida says, flustered. “Monthly hospital check.” She’s still not used to MYKerja, newly implemented by the government to better facilitate working from home. MYKerja says she can call it MIKKA, her Friendly AI Work Colleague, but Ida is too wary of it — she is afraid she will

KISAH Futures Anthology

wake up one day in the grip of another wave of disease and she will have no job, like what happened to thousands post-COVID, and MYKerja will be there, with its bottomless eyes of JavaScript, waiting to replace her. “Anya,” she calls. She’s there, patiently waiting for her suit to self-sanitise, all of six years old and too small, swimming inside her suit like it’s a womb. Ida smiles down at her. “Let’s go.” They live in a self-sustaining farm, the kind that popped up after the disease mutated and tore through the kampungs, the cattle, the rural farmers. Whole plantations were destroyed under the onslaught of draught and flood and virus — all the oil palm, rubber, padi, gone — and the people had to find ways to make their own food, fast. It is small comfort that Anya loves it now, the green infrastructure the government had to invest in to boost local food production. As they walk she jumps up to touch the trailing vines, skips over the boreholes they source their unpolluted water from, until they reach the crumbling, raggedy edges of the road, where the detention centres rise up, dilapidated barbed wire and red and white plastic barriers. The homeless live in socially-distanced plastic cubicles that look like cells. There is a dead bird caught in the tangled blue of a disposable mask, the ones people use if they cannot afford the suits. Anya reaches out to touch, fascinated, and Ida says sharply, “Don’t.” Avian carriers of the mutated strain used to be electrocuted in hordes, bodies falling off the telephone wires like locusts in the desert. Ida remembers this, children playing hopscotch with dead birds before dying themselves, as they’re scanned through

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